


dismissed

by finchers



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, andrew is a uhhh bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finchers/pseuds/finchers
Summary: Andrew likes being drunk and being slapped around and being wanted.





	dismissed

The fourth time he and Nicole have sex, he produces a dildo out of his drawer and hands it to her. She stares at it like he just handed her an alien; her eyes grow large and she visibly swallows.

“Is that yours?” 

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” 

He bought it as a dare and you can tell. The fucking thing is clear and filled with little rainbow colored dicks inside and he blushes. He knows how this looks. But she’s just as embarrassed as he is.

“I didn’t know you were… into… that kinda stuff, I guess.” She says, her already flushed skin turning an even darker pink.

He’s not. But he would be lying to himself if he said he’d never used it before. Before Nicole, before Shaffer, before Fletcher, he was lonely and he learned to get creative. 

He stifles a laugh and acts like he didn’t just wordlessly tell his girlfriend to fuck him in the ass. But he wants to know what it would feel like. To have someone in him, breathing in his ear, running his fingers through his hair, leaving bite marks and scratches on his back, spanking him until his cheeks were red. 

Drawing blood. 

“But if you really want me to, I guess I don’t mind.” 

She’s being nice. She is nice. She is nice brown hair and brown eyes and nice sized breasts and nicely trimmed pussy and nice, tender moans she can silence easily. 

He is not nice. It had been two weeks since Dunellen, two weeks since Carl had probably already taken the liberty of writing his eulogy. Two weeks since he became a core member of the Shaffer Conservatory Jazz Band. 

He knows he’s not nice because he knows that this is the last time he and Nicole will have sex. He knows he will break up with her next week and that she will grow to resent him. 

“I’d appreciate it.” 

Her brow furrows and she frowns at the dildo, placing it at crotch level, and preparing herself for what will most likely be her first pegging.Andrew gets on his hands and knees, instructing her to tease him finger by finger and then to finally put it in. 

*** 

20 minutes later, they’re done and Andrew has to admit, she’s not too shabby. She was nervous though; she tried to jerk him off as she fucked him and he could feel her hands shake. Nothing stopped him from coming, as he did, loudly and in short bursts. 

They lie together on his bed for a while and he looks at her; eyes closed, lips slightly open, hair completely out of place. 

He knows he could marry her if he wanted to. 

*** 

He rolls over and checks his phone, 2 unread messages and a missed call with a voicemail. 

“Neiman, if you are late to practice again, I swear I will make you wish you were never fucking bor-“ 

He deletes it and drops his phone on the floor where it lands with a thud. 

Nicole rolls over, her eyes slightly dazed as she kisses his neck. 

“Did you say something?” 

***

 

He hates waking up early. He’s too drowsy in the mornings to drive to practice and he always ends up walking the streets of New York, making eye contact with no one and dodging the cracked asphalt and/or dog shit.

 

On most days, he shows up for the first rehearsal at 8:50 in the morning, bright and early. Nothing and no one will make him even a second late to practice. But last Tuesday, his father took him to see Taxi Driver for the, what’s probably 8th time and he missed second rehearsal's call time at 9:00pm.

 

Needless to say, Fletcher was not happy.

 

His punishment was early morning call time at 6 and the joy of practicing impossibly fast music for a teacher that expects nothing less than perfection.

 

Somehow there are people here this early, mostly janitors and students strung out on Adderall, and he sidesteps them on his way to class. The walk down the hallway to the last door is always a fun one.

 

“So you aren’t the lazy sack of shit I always suspected you to be.” Fletcher says, his voice reverberating around the room.

 

“I already apologized, my father-“, Andrew tries to explain.

 

“Save the theatrics for Broadway, okay sweetheart?” Fletcher silences him.

 

Andrew says nothing, taking his seat at the kit.

 

“I just hope you’ve been practicing. Your tempo’s a fucking mess and I think you know that just as well as the judges at Elkins last week did.” Fletcher’s veins are already visible, his eyes bulging.

 

He knows his tempo sucks and he knows Fletcher is acting like an asshole just to piss him off but he sucks his teeth and endures his taunts. He is there to play and he will play.

 

***

 

As he walks home, he sees the most beautiful blonde he’s ever seen in his life; she’s all curves, straight white teeth, and hair falling in perfect curls. He watches her walk into a bar and checks his watch.  _1:08 pm_. No one goes to bars this early. He follows after her, entering the room and the stench of alcohol hits him like a brick wall. He’s only 19 and the only drink he’s ever had is a sip of wine when he was twelve.

 

Andrew knows that if he shows up to practice drunk tonight, Fletcher will flip shit. But the words fucking disgrace ring in his ears and he burns red. He is not a disgrace.

 

He looks around the bar where the girl has mysteriously disappeared and clears his throat to get the bartender’s attention.

 

“Yes, what can I get you?” The bartender chirps.

 

The man is old and fat, his hairline receding and the buttons of his uniform shining.

 

“Um, a gin on the rocks please?” Andrew says, lowering his voice as to somehow appear older.

 

“Coming right up,” the man says, flashing a weary smile at him.

 

He looks down at his shoes, observing the holes in his favorite Converse, turning them around and observing them for mud.

 

The drink comes down on the wood hard, sloshing around the glass, making an audible thwack as the bartender quickly attends to an older man at the end of the bar.  
Andrew reaches for the drink and takes a healthy gulp, his eyes already burning from the smell. His father’s favorite drink is gin and Andrew didn’t know any better. It tastes like lighter fluid and he forces it down his throat as his vision momentarily blurs.

 

He slams his glass on the counter.

 

“One more.”

 

***

 

An hour later, he is drunk.

 

He grabs his sticks and leaves the bar, stumbling over himself as he uses every chair he sees to hold himself up. He’s never gotten drunk before; his grandfather was an alcoholic and his father always cautioned him to stay away from heavy drinking. But his father never told him how nice it feels; the sun is out and the breeze is blowing through his mal-fitting shirt and for the first time in forever, his head is clear. No Fletcher, no charts, nothing but the earth around him and the concrete under him.

 

He doesn’t know how to get home so he sits on someone’s front steps and pulls out his phone, setting his alarm to 8:30pm and lying down, his sticks safely tucked beside him.

 

Goodnight, New York.

 

***

 

He wakes up and the stars are already out. He checks his phone for the time – a glowing  _11:32 pm_  shines brightly and he knows he is completely and utterly fucked. Suddenly, all the worries and thoughts he had pushed aside hours ago come rushing back furiously. He gets up and immediately begins to stagger.

 

Shit.

 

He’s still drunk.

 

He grabs his sticks and half-runs/half-gallops towards Shaffer, or at least where he thinks Shaffer is; the “Maps” app on his phone tells him he’s in Brooklyn and he knows it’s a 20 minute drive from where he is. He runs to the nearest intersection, mindlessly pushing the pedestrian crossing button and waiting all of two seconds to run across the busy street. Cars honk at him loudly and it hurts his brain; he doesn’t dare to look at the cars, he knows his tender, very drunk head couldn’t take the headlights and would probably blind him or give him a concussion on sight.

 

A bus is boarding and its neon lights read UNION SQUARE. Shaffer’s in downtown Manhattan and he can get there from Union Square in 5 minutes or less.

 

He texts Carl (who he prays doesn’t have him blocked already) and types out a frantic

 

_“Will be at practice in 10 min. Tell Fletcher to wait for me”_

 

He knows Fletcher never would but he might as well try.

 

***

 

By the time he gets there, the place has cleared out; his father taught him to never trust New York’s public transportation and he didn’t listen – by the time he arrives at school, it’s 1 am. He doubts that Fletcher’s even inside but he goes in tentatively, the bite of cold that somehow still exists in the middle of spring against his exposed skin makes him shiver.

 

His phone vibrates and he checks it – a text from his dad.

 

_Where are you??_

 

He doesn’t text him back. Hopefully no one is around and he can simply leave a note saying he stopped by and can continue to dodge Fletcher’s wrath as long as he can.

 

He trips twice as he walks down the hall but, thankfully, the dim fluorescent lights make the throbbing in his head subside and he focuses on getting to the room without vomiting.  
He finally approaches, taking a deep breath and pushing the door open…

 

No one.

 

The hardwood creaks where it always does and he goes over to the kit and sits down. He doesn’t wanna play, his hands are shaking and his vision is so blurry he can’t read whatever chart is on the music stand. He starts humming a song but he doesn’t know which one and he gets up and walks out of the room.

 

***

 

“Neiman?”

 

The voice resonates in this ears and echo and re-echo. There’s no way.

 

“Neiman you fucking idiot, I know you can hear me. You may be a fucking imbecile that can’t keep time as well as a Neanderthal that apparently doesn't own a fucking watch but you’re not deaf.”

 

Andrew has no idea where the voice is coming from. His thoughts are too clouded and choked up for him to have any perception of location but he wanders towards the sound of the voice and stumbles into Fletcher’s office.

 

It has the faint smell of drying paint and shoe shine, the perfect combination of scents to make him inadvertently rub his temples.

 

“Well, fucking speak dammit! Or are you deaf, dumb and mute?” He questions, his veins popping already.

 

“S-sorry, I’m a bit tired,” Andrew slurs, amused at how mad Fletcher is.

 

“You’re fucking tired? What time is it Neiman?” he demands and checks his own watch, “1:24 a-fucking-m. You’ve clearly been sleeping in your own piss so I don’t know why you’re so tired when I’ve been here for 5 hours waiting on your ass to show up to practice.”

 

Fletcher’s yelling only makes Andrew’s head hurt more and the combination of fatigue and, what seems to be a concussion, can barely keep him standing.

 

“What the fuck? Neiman, are you drunk?”

 

Andrew giggles, the way Fletcher says  _Neeeman_ is suddenly hilarious.

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

Fletcher looks up at the ceiling, muttering “This must be a fucking joke” under his breath.

 

Andrew puts his hand on his desk to keep him standing and smiles hugely.

 

“Sorry I’m drunk. But there’s nothing you can do about me. I mean it.” Andrew beamed, his phrase largely coming out in mumbles and slurred words.

 

And then Andrew is on the floor, grabbing his newly red and quickly bruising cheek and Fletcher has risen from his desk.

 

“The next time you show up here drunk Neiman, so help me God, I will put my foot so far up your ass you’ll be spitting out my toenail clippings. You think it’s hard to replace you? You have no fucking clue how many kids within a 5 mile radius of this place are just like you. In fact, better than you because they fucking show up to practice on time.”

 

Fletcher pulls up Andrew by the back of his shirt and looks him in the eye.

 

“Now, I don’t give a fuck if you’re fucking coke dealer when you’re not here but when you are, you’re mine.”

 

He pauses here and Andrew only hears white noise. He feels warm and he says a silent prayer that his face won’t flush red.

 

“Get the fuck out of here.”

 

Andrew leaves the room hurriedly, tripping over his own feet and scrambling to get out of Shaffer before Fletcher decides to throw the heaviest thing he can find at his head.  
He steps out into the air and looks up, his breath visible in the cold May night. The stars are now all visible and though his brain is still banging around the sides of his head, he knows how to get home.

 

***

 

The first thing he does when he gets home is jack off.  
 

He throws his coat on the floor and flops onto his couch, unzipping his pants and shoving his hand down them while his mind (and cheek) burn. He shuts his eyes and pictures Fletcher hovering above him and yelling obscenities as Andrew works himself into a rhythm. He remembers the white hot flash of the slap across his cheek just minutes ago and moans.  
 

He thinks of Fletcher’s voice echoing you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine as he strokes furiously, trying to recall all the times Fletcher has hit him.  
 

He thinks of Fletcher’s arms and how angry his eyes look when he fucks up and the slight flashes of pride Andrew sees in his eyes every time they win a competition.  
 

He thinks of Fletcher fucking him mercilessly, tying him up and beating the shit out of him and coming in his mouth.  
 

That image is more than enough.  
 

Andrew comes in hot spurts, yelling Fletcher’s name and fucking his hand until he comes down, exhausted.  
 

 

***

 

   
A week later, Andrew is drunk again and he rolls around on his bed before he decides to call Fletcher.  
 

Andrew passes out at 4 AM with his jeans around his ankles and his phone in his right hand.  
 

 

***

 

   
The next morning, Andrew is up at 8, giving him just enough time to jerk off, shower and shampoo, eat a bowl of what’s probably an expired box of Froot Loops, and get to Shaffer by 8:55, where he sprints inside and takes his place at the stool in front of Carl, ignoring the holes he’s definitely boring into his head.

   
His vision is still a little hazy from the previous night and he remembers absolutely nothing, his week-old bruise shining on his face like a medal.  
 

He’s a little ashamed to admit that touching the bruise and imagining Fletcher helped him come this morning.  
 

 

***

   
The doors swing open and Andrew does not dare make eye contact – his goal today is to pretend nothing happened last night and to play his heart out and to get out of practice in time to meet up with Nicole and break up with her so he can go home and play GTA V and fuck around his apartment until he forces himself to practice.

 

***

 

Fletcher doesn’t say anything to Andrew the entire time.

 

***

 

Soon enough, practice is over; Andrew dodges a high five from Ryan and keeps his head down as he leaves, mentally going over his plans for the rest of the day (which consists of buying a bottle of Jack to down with some Lunchables, and then calling his dad) when Fletcher calls him.

 

“Neiman,” he booms from the farthest side of the room, “you stay.”

 

Andrew faces away and doesn’t want to turn around and look at Fletcher.  
 

“Are you a fucking statue? Turn around and come here.”  
 

Andrew wills himself to turn around, taking slow trudging steps towards Fletcher. Eventually he reaches him and he forces himself to look up.  
 

The first thing Fletcher does is laugh.  
 

Andrew’s face dissolves into confusion, scratching his head and saying in a near whisper, “What?”  
 

Fletcher pauses in between chuckles, “You must have been drunker than I thought. You really don’t remember, huh?”  
 

Andrew freezes. Suddenly, memories from last night come rushing back; the booze, the masturbating, the fucking _call_.  
 

“Oh my God, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so- that wasn’t me. I had a few drinks, it was late. I’m so fucking- Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this is happening –"  
 

Fletcher holds up a hand and says nothing. He pulls out his phone from his pocket and taps on it quickly, and then holding it up for Andrew to see.  
 

“Heeeeey Fletcher! The Fletch-man. What’s up! I’m watching Looney Tunes right now! And it’s like suuuuper late. Also have you ever tried –hic– Whiplash? Oh my God, I meant whiskey! That’s so fucking crazy! Isn’t that so-”  
 

Fletcher looks at Andrew amusedly. “It goes on for about 15 minutes, and it’s all just bullshit like that.”  
 

Andrew covers his face with his hands and wonders if this is what death feels like.  
 

“Neiman, what the fuck is really wrong with you? Answer honestly, because I truly don't understand what would possess you to call me. What the fuck were you looking for? Something to fulfill the fucked up student-teacher fantasy sex you dream about every night?”  
 

Andrew’s face flushes and he lowers his hands and stares at Fletcher’s chest.  
 

“I am so so sorry. I didn’t ever want you to-”  
 

Fletcher taps on his phone again.  
 

“Are you going to come ooooover or what? I was thinking about you tonight and I thought it’d be so cute if you came over and-”  
 

“I’m going to spare you from the rest, but believe me, it got worse,” Fletcher says, his voice just above a growl.  
 

“Jesus Christ, please, I’m so sorry.” Andrew repeats, his face reddening.  
 

'Stop groveling, idiot. I actually thought it was hilarious."  
 

Andrew peers at Fletcher through his fingers and starts to say something before-  
 

“I want you to come out with me tonight.”  
 

 _Will there be drinks?_ is the first thing Andrew thinks.  
 

***  
 

Since last Thursday, Andrew has been drinking at quite a rapid pace; going to the same bar once more before getting carded at 3 AM after his 13th drink (he had been counting, or at least he was before numbers and vomit began to swirl in an inseparable mixture and he was thrown out onto the street, the same bartender with the shiny buttons muttering _“A fucking kid”_ under his breath).  
 

The next day he showed up at practice an hour early because he hadn’t slept; he was tired as hell but he knew if he missed again or came late Carl would have the solo at the concert next week in Bellaire.

 

Luckily, as part of his ongoing punishment for coming to practice drunk, he didn't have to play. The band playing at full volume didn't help his hangover though, and the lights overhead burned into his retinas and went straight to his migraine.

 

But he drank again that night; not going to the bar, but instead picking up a fake I.D. (from his neighbor's boyfriend's friend's sister or something like that) and going to the convenience store next to the movie theater Nicole works and buying some lemonade, some peach schnapps, and some vodka.

   
He had taken the liberty of Googling 'delicious alcoholic drinks' like a fucking 16 year old and he read the recipe off his phone while looking over that week's charts.  
 

A few hours later, he had drunk-dialed Nicole 23 times, masturbated three times, and eaten 2 boxes of pizza.  
 

And then, on Sunday, he had a shot of tequila before meeting up with his dad and uncle who took him and his cousins to mini-golf. His uncle snuck him a beer while his dad was showing his cousins how to make a hole-in-one. He had a few more shots when he got home, lying on the floor not drunk, but happily tipsy, a warm feeling spread through him.  
 

And then on Tuesday he had a few drinks, called himself 8 times, and contemplated getting a hooker for the night.  
 

 

***

 

“Sure, we can go somewhere.”

 

***

 

Andrew is an anxious fucking mess and all he can think about is Fletcher. They made reservations downtown at La Lanterna and he’s _definitely_ not drunk enough to be next to Fletcher at a restaurant that Yelp reviewers describe as “intimate and romantic.” He gets home and thinks about outfit possibilities and cologne choices, all the shit he used to think about when he was with Nicole and he cringes. His mind is replaying _isthisadateisthisadateisthisadate_ over and over as he walks into his apartment and spots a 1/4 empty Tito’s bottle on his counter. 

 

He ponders the idea of drinking, just a shot or two to loosen himself up for his… 

 

Well, if it’s not a date then what is it? 

 

Fuck.

 

He grabs the bottle and a shot glass with the Giants logo on the side and goes into the bathroom. 

 

He’s always hated the taste of vodka, especially Tito’s; it tastes like lighter fluid but it’s cheap and it gets him fucked up fast. He never knows when he’s drunk until he gets up to looks in a mirror and can’t recognize who’s looking back. 

 

He’s always been a bit of a lightweight which is embarrassing in its own respect, but to make it even worse, he’s a sappy, sloppy, slutty drunk. 

 

He looks in the mirror and sees a blurry image of himself, smiles, and takes another shot. 

 

***

 

He’s fucked up. The restaurant is like, 10 blocks away from his apartment but he calls an Uber because he can’t walk without holding onto something, let alone walk in a straight line if NYPD pulls up next to the wasted, _clearly_ a freshman on the street. He drinks a Red Bull in attempt to sober up, but that just makes him even more anxious as he runs his hands through his hair over and over, attempting to make it seem appealing, maybe even cute? He feels happily loose, warm in the best way and his dick is already half-hard at the thought of his thigh brushing up next to Fletcher’s under the table. 

 

***

 

He gets in his Uber and he holds his legs tightly together as he looks out onto the street. He winds down the window and the cold air whips in. He’s always liked the cold more than the heat; he’s always jumpy and anxious and sweaty and winters in New York add an extra barrier between him and himself. He arrives a few minutes later and checks his watch; a glowing _9:28 PM_ stares back at him. He wanted to be early so he could make a good impression; he has no idea whether Fletcher asked him to get together tonight to talk about charts or yell at him. _Does he do this with everyone?_ Andrew thinks. His thoughts are interrupted with a heavy hand slapping his ass that almost sends him toppling over. 

 

“Neiman! I'm surprised you came.”

 

Fletcher’s voice booms behind him and Andrew is scared to turn around. His vision is blurry as he stumbles to face Fletcher who lets out a giant belly laugh. 

 

“Jesus Neiman, you look fucking awful.” 

 

He looks at Andrew with a shit-eating grin and makes eye contact that Andrew is too drunk to return. Fletcher peers at him wordlessly and shoves him into the restaurant, giving his name in his clipped way and walks them to the table, outpacing the waiter, almost as if he knows their table better than he does. 

 

The restaurant is beautiful, the outer patio is lush and green, flowers and moss hang on the walls and lights dot the tables as opaque white tablecloths remind Andrew of the tablecloth he has at home. He can barely appreciate it before Fletcher is snapping his fingers in front of his face; he had been talking to him the whole time. 

 

“Neiman, are you fucking drunk? Again? Jesus-“

 

The words “We should fuck,” come tumbling out of Andrew’s mouth before he can stop himself but the alcohol makes him weirdly calm and confident so after he speaks, he looks at Fletcher, who doesn’t bat an eyelash. 

 

“You think so, hm?” 

 

Andrew nods over-enthusiastically like a bobblehead and gives Fletcher a nervous smile. He moves forward in his seat so he is touching knees with Fletcher who just looks at him emptily, saying nothing at all. 

 

The waiter comes over and Fletcher orders himself a glass of Pinot Grigio and a salad. When Andrew begins to order, Fletcher says “That’s it for now” loudly, staring Andrew down and making the acne-ridden waiter scurry away. 

 

For the rest of their dinner, Fletcher doesn’t say a word. Andrew is too scared and self-conscious to order so he shrinks back into himself, drinking his complimentary glass of water in little sips. 

 

They get to dessert and Fletcher orders the tiramisu. As they’re waiting, he speaks.

 

“Get under the table, Andrew,” he says, measured and calm. 

 

“Wait, w-why do I have to do tha-,” Andrew sputters.

 

“Are you going to do it or not?” Fletcher says nonchalantly, checking his phone. 

 

Andrew stares down at his hands for a second, looks around to see if anyone is watching him, and feigns dropping a knife as he awkwardly gets under the table. He pulls the tablecloth that reminds him of his father over his head as he sits there, waiting for an explanation or frankly anything from Fletcher. 

 

He sits cross legged, praying that no one can see him as his face turns bright red. He puts his head in his hands and tries to steady his vision. 

 

He flinches when he hears the sound of a zipper unzipping. 

 

Fletcher’s dick comes out in a swift motion, lightly matted with grey hair, and he lets it hang. Andrew can only really see its shadow as the light from the outside shines faintly through the tablecloth. He looks at it hazily, unsure of what’s really going on, but he’s honestly too drunk to care. He considers for a second until he hears Fletcher grunt loudly, as if to give him a signal. Andrew gets on his knees and moves towards it, touching it tentatively. He’s about to put it in his mouth when he hears the waiter return. 

 

“Ah, so where’d your friend go?”

 

“He said he’d be in the bathroom taking a phone call? I guess he had some things to handle, you know how it can be.” 

 

“Oh, of course. Do you want to order a drink for him? Coffee, tea, some brandy, or something hearty? I noticed he didn’t eat much.” 

 

“No, no worries. He’s probably very occupied right now.” 

 

Fletcher talks and Andrew can hear the smile in his voice, or his calcified replica of a smile that he flashes with strangers. 

 

He imagines the smile as he hears the footsteps trail away from the table. 

 

Andrew feels dizzy and high on life all of a sudden. He goes to lick Fletcher’s cock in a swift motion, seeing how he likes it, trying to figure out what to do. He takes all of it in his mouth next and he hears Fletcher gasp under his breath. Andrew isn’t sure exactly what he’s doing, mostly just licking and sucking, keeping a close ear to Fletcher’s breathing. He feels a hand thread through his hair and push down on him and it feels like a warm embrace. He hates how much he likes to feel controlled, to have someone tell him exactly what to do and how to do it - he can’t mess up that way. Andrew wonders how it looks as Fletcher thrusts into his mouth, slack-jawed and pliant. 

 

Andrew doesn’t even feel like himself; he feels like a receptacle in the best way. He feels electric as he takes more of Fletcher’s cock, and finds himself moaning out loud. Fletcher kicks him in the stomach hard, knocking the wind out of him as he chokes on his cock, falling backwards. His vision blurs and he tries not to make a sound as he goes back to Fletcher. He deep throats him like he knows he likes and Fletcher grips his hair tighter.

 

He doesn’t make a sound when he comes in Andrew’s mouth, holding his head in place so Andrew is forced to swallow. The come is saltier than Andrew would have expected and he cringes at the taste as Fletcher tucks himself back in his tailored pants. Andrew sits back on his knees, wiping his mouth, beginning to realize that he had been crying. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he just lost his virginity all over again, except this time he doesn’t get to come.

"Can I get the check please," Fletcher says to an invisible waiter - a demand, not a question.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a re-upload and an update ! will be updated semi-regularly! please leave me comments !


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